The telephone rang at half past nine,
some voice I didn't recognize.
I asked if she was home tonight
and I had to clear my throat.
I said, no sir, she doesn't live here anymore.
He apologized and hung up quick,
left me standing in the kitchen
with a dial tone in her last forwarding
address crumpled somewhere in the trash.
It's the strangest kind of hurt when a stranger says her name,
like she's still the kind of woman who might answer when they call.
Like I'm still the kind of man who
knows where she lays her head down.
I wonder who he was to her,
some old friend,
some landlord,
with a bill,
some mechanic,
with a car fixed up and ready.
Doesn't matter much,
I guess.
I poured myself a whiskey,
stood there looking at the phone,
like it might ring again,
and I could practice getting it right this time without the shaking.
It's the strangest kind of hurt when a stranger says her name,
like she's still the kind of woman who might be here making dinner.
Like I'm still the kind of fool who believes she's coming back.
He just sits there silent now,
but I can still hear how he said it,
how he asked for her like she was someone you could find.